Cold Front
by westerno
Summary: Robbie's struggling a bit this holiday season. He's torn between wanting to do something nice for the residents of Lazytown, and habitual, compulsive avoidant behaviors. In which the author projects REALLY STRONGLY onto Robbie. Warnings for mentions of child abuse (of the emotional variety) and mild injury. fanfiction-dot-net's 4-character limit continues to kill me.
1. Chapter 1

Robbie Rotten swore to anyone who asked him that he didn't like Christmas _and he never had._ Half of that claim was true. He despised the holiday and the entire season. The lights made once-peaceful nights bright, grating, and gaudy. The cold weather was hell on the extremities - it was like the blood wouldn't flow to the ends of his long limbs - he'd spend whole half-hours standing at his bathroom sink, holding his hands under warm water, waiting for the feeling to return. The damn snow - he hadn't waterproofed his lair well enough, any melted snow inevitably ran through imperceptible crevices, dropping and pooling in only the most inconvenient places. He'd slipped on puddles at home four times already and it was only the 14th. He was sick to death of seeing and hearing those kids doing - well, the same thing they did year-round, he supposed, just with a different theme - winter sports, sledding and sliding and snowballs. He'd been lucky enough not to catch himself in the middle of any snowball fights yet.

 _Yet._

He hadn't planned on going out, but he'd run out of wood glue and clamps and nails of a particular length _and_ those tiny paintbrushes, you know, the ones that are practically a single hair. He always discovered material shortages at inopportune moments. Granted, he only checked his supplies when he was in a particular mood that was strongest around Christmastime. It was like... well, frustration, mostly. A little fear, maybe some sadness - but what of it? It was only a passing feeling.

And he was out of those extra-long rubber bands, too; he'd have to get more. If he saw any odd metal bits, he'd buy those, as well. Early Christmas present for himself.

He got on the stout green-gray bus to the nearest big city, Happensville. It was a pretty fitting name, considering that it had just about everything going on. Including a craft store that Robbie frequented in wintertime. He didn't mind leaving Lazytown for something as simple as a day trip, though he didn't think he could last a night away from the place. No, he thought, more than six hours would be tough. Even staying at the beach too long made his anxiety spike. He didn't know what that was all about - or so he told himself.

The bus had no passengers except him, and the portly bus driver luckily wasn't a talker. There was Christmas music playing over the bus speakers, but Robbie didn't mind. The music was practically the only thing he could stand about the holiday. That and the holiday sales. God, he hoped the craft store wasn't too crowded.

He'd be on the lookout for gifts for those brats, too. Just because _he_ hated Christmas didn't mean he had to make everyone else's worse. In fact, if his Scroogish behavior really, _truly_ hurt anyone's holiday, he'd never forgive himself. He wouldn't go to the annual holiday party, though. He'd drop off the gifts early, compliment the tree and the menorah, and retreat. He'd prepared a short speech to give to whoever answered the door: "I won't be able to stay, I'm feeling quite ill. Here are the presents. I like the tree - oh, and the menorah, of course. No, I really have to go. 'Bye." So what if it was a bit awkward, recited rather than spoken? He couldn't stay. It was just too... too _much_.

What was he going to get for Sportacus? Sports equipment? Fruit? Some damn winter clothes? Not the last one, no, that was too personal. And getting Sportacus fruit would be just like how everyone always got Robbie socks. A cop-out. He couldn't do that. And the man had plenty of sports-equipment, tailor-made. Tailor... For a moment, Robbie briefly entertained the idea of making Sportacus a sweater. It'd be even more personal than just buying him something, so it certainly wasn't a real-life possibility. But it'd be an easy gift, Robbie liked making clothes... he could do a blue one - a Hanukkah-themed one, but in the ugly-Christmas-sweater style. He pictured how dorky Sportacus would look in it. He'd probably never take it off; he did, after all, wear the same outfit all the time.

If he made an ugly sweater, he could always pass it off as a plan to humiliate the elf. Nobody would give it a second thought, really, would they? And if Sportacus cared enough to wear it - which he would, the compassionate bastard - he'd have some kind of winter outfit and Robbie wouldn't have to look at his bare arms and think of how cold it must be. Not that it was an act of caring - Robbie just didn't like such a bold reminder of the freezing temperature. That's all.

He pushed the sweater idea to the back of his mind as the bus pulled into the Happensville stop. He'd think about it, but that was all. He was shopping for _himself_ right now, not that damned blue jumping bean.


	2. Chapter 2

He stared at the heap of yarn on his metal countertop as if trying to wish it away. The yarn was divided into piles. Three shades of pink. Teal, white, and orange. Red, yellow, and black. Primary colors. Yellow, black, white, and gold. Pastel pink, purple, and blue. Green, gray, beige, and navy. And... the nearest pile. Yellow, orange, black, white, and two shades of blue. Like a heap of deconstructed sports elf.

He _really_ needed to stop impulse-buying. Or, at least, stop shopping while anxious.

Well, he was always anxious. Maybe if he never left his lair...?

He considered the knitting needles in his hand. He still had a chance. Throw out the yarn, Robbie. Don't put yourself through this - all this work! Think of your image! You hate Christmas. It's a money-sapping, moral-leaching cesspool of overstimulation.

But hand-making gifts for others wasn't money-sapping or moral-leaching, was it? And he wouldn't very well get overstimulated if he stayed down in his lair and knitted for a few days.

He sighed and set the needles on the countertop. He'd just check one thing first, then make a decision. No need to rush into it.

He played a mangled Christmas tune on the keyboard of the disguise machine, and five new disguises swapped in for the previous ones in the tube. His gaze passed a santa outfit and a snow monster suit before settling on the middle disguise chamber.

He hit a couple of switches and the sweater slid out of the machine's drawer. Robbie spread it over the flat surface gingerly. It was red-and-dark-purple, of course, horizontally striped, with some gold accents between stripes. There was an abstract, asymmetrical swath of snowflakes knitted on, which were also accented gold. It was a beautiful sweater on all counts, made by Robbie's own hand, and he handled it like he was afraid it would leap up and attack him.

He really didn't like Christmas, he thought, turning over the sweater. Sure enough, there was still that grotesque, clumpy stain over the left shoulder and back. Robbie shivered, though he was sure it was just the air in the underground bunker. He lifted the sweater, held it up to his front... and threw it back down like it was cursed, panting. He pulled the lever and switches to send it back, back into the tube where it couldn't get him, and back below his lair with the other unused disguises, where he didn't have to think about it anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

He wasn't sure he _could_ knit a holiday sweater, to be honest, let alone eight. He couldn't even _wear_ one. But he'd already bought the yarn. He - god, _why_ had he bought the yarn? Sportacus didn't need winter clothes or he'd have bought them already. He was wasting his time, honestly, and it wasn't too late, he could return the yarn and just buy some raspberries or something, save himself so much trouble...

He was thinking all this as he began with the yarn for Ziggy's sweater, designing it in his head. He'd have to include the "Z" that featured on the front of the kid's shirt. The sleeves and chest front would both be patterned with stripes and little candy designs since the kid loved sweets so much. Maybe the back could be solid red, to fit his superhero notions.

Robbie found knitting the gift sweaters to be much easier than handling his own ruined garment. He barely thought except to design what he was making. He finished Ziggy's, then Pixel's with its circuitry patterns, then Stingy's shiny gold-bar-and-coin theme. Sportacus's had been easy - a menorah and some Hebrew lettering, some dreidels, some stripes and stars. Trixie's had been tougher - he'd finally settled for stitching a stripey skateboard on the front and back, and making the sleeves solid yellow to contrast the mostly-red torso. The mayor's had butterflies and dragonflies on it, which Robbie had come up with on a whim based on the color scheme. Ms. Busybody's featured a sunglasses and lipstick design. He was working on Stephanie's now, and debating what to pattern it with. He had the three shades of pink, as well as some silver yarn he hadn't remembered buying. He didn't really know what Stephanie liked - rather, she seemed to like everything. That was the problem.

He'd think of something. He kept working. He'd been knitting for four days straight with few breaks and he wasn't going to stop now. His needles spun furiously as he worked.

When he finished, he didn't register what he had made for a long moment. Then he gasped and shoved the sweater into the pile of other finished ones. It was horizontally striped in two shades of pink, silver accents between stripes. The lightest shade of pink was reserved for the asymmetrical snowflake pattern on the front. The silver accenting the snowflakes made them sparkle. It was a color swap of _his_ sweater, the one he could hardly bear to look at anymore, because-

Robbie shook his head. So what? It was fine handiwork. It wasn't as though _he_ would have to wear it. And anyway, he should be in a good mood, he told himself. The knitting was done and he could relax. He considered sleeping, but a glance at the pink sweater deterred him. He bundled himself into his winter clothes and hauled himself up the ladder to Lazytown proper.


	4. Chapter 4

It was _cold_. Robbie had known it would be - but he still wasn't quite prepared for the blast of cold air that hit him as he left his lair. This time, the shivers really were from the cold.

He stalked through the half-light like some sort of Lazytown cryptid. The moonlight gleaming off the thin layer of fallen snow hurt. How much sleep had he gotten in the past four days? Couldn't have been more than a few hours. What day was it?

He found a park bench and collapsed on it, rubbing his mittened hands together. It was _so cold_. Temperatures this low should be illegal. But he guessed this was better than sleeping next to that damned sweater.

It hadn't been anyone's fault, but if someone had to take the blame, Robbie knew he fit the bill. He always had. Even before Nine, he'd been labeled a troublemaker. Sure, adults had always tried to be nice to him - who wouldn't take pity on someone named "Rotten"? - but kids have a funny way of working around such things. So nobody bullied little Robert. But nobody was particularly nice to him, either. Nobody really seemed, Robbie had realized early on, to feel very strongly about him either way. It was like he didn't exist.

He'd always liked Halloween, but not so much Christmas. Most winters, he'd gone to Brawlton to visit his father and that side of his family. He hated visiting his father, and the fact that he was gone during Lazytown's most social holiday only further alienated him from his peers.

Eight was really the only adult who paid attention to him, _really_ paid attention. She would ask him how his Christmas had been and listen to him rattle off the list of presents he'd received. But then she would ask, "That's good, but _how was_ it?" And he'd sigh and look at the floor and confess that, well, his dad still thought of his visits as proof of possession. And he still felt bad that he didn't love him, because you're supposed to love your parents. Especially if they don't hurt you.

And Eight would smile - a little sadly, he thought, but not in a pitying way - and say that it was okay, and that he didn't have to feel any certain way about his parents or anyone else. And she would give him her present, which was like a post-breakdown pick-me-up, because somehow she always got him the perfect gift. Sometimes it was something to further a current hobby - a sewing machine, one year - and sometimes it was a new thing he had never even considered doing - a dessert cookbook, followed up for a while by cooking and icing utensils.

But she couldn't make people like him. That was beyond her, just like it was everyone else. Nine had been adamant about that, when he came - nobody could make people like Robbie except for Robbie. He had to change, to better himself. And he could do it! There was good in him, that was what Nine always said. "There's good in you, Rotten."

He'd been, what, seventeen when Nine showed up? He was still mourning Eight. She hadn't died, of course, but the loss of her presence devastated fifteen-year-old Robbie. It was like all the good in him had left.

But it hadn't! Not according to Nine. "It's just buried in there somewhere," he said. God, he reminded Robbie so much of his father. "You can fix it, Robbie, I believe in you." He'd cared so damn much, and all he'd tried to do was _change_ Robbie.


	5. Chapter 5

It was the first Christmas after Robbie's 18th birthday, and Robbie didn't have to go to Brawlton because damn it, he was an adult now. Or, at least, old enough to opt out of the grueling holiday torture. So what if his dad hated him? So what if Glanni hated him? His younger brother loved their dad. Robbie didn't want to ruin that. God knows it would kill him, to see Glanni so hateful, so bitter and disenfranchised. So like Robbie.

He was panicking. His father had called twice the first day. Robbie had let it go to voicemail. He had listened to part of the first message, but he was crying so hard he couldn't bring himself to hear the second. "Hey, Robert, how's it going? We all miss you over here. Glanni's gonna be lonely at the kids' table. You could still make it in time for Christmas! Grandma's going to be here, and Uncle-" that was where he'd stopped and thrown his phone across the room. He really was just a possession to them, wasn't he? His father only wanted him over for Christmas to show him off. "Look, look, Robert's here! He's an adult now, so he could have stayed in Lazytown, but he came here because _we have him wrapped around our finger, look at him, he loves us, what a good son-_ "

"Rotten?" Nine. Had his stupid crystal really gone off for this? "What's the problem?"

"Nothing," Robbie said. He really didn't want to talk about this with Nine.

"C'mon. Tell me. I'm here to help." Of course he's here to help. Look at me, Nine the Sports Elf, I'm so big and good that I even help that weird Rotten kid that nobody talks to! Yeah, I'm just the best. Give me some attention! That's right! And to the Rotten boy? Feh! A stepping-stone. What, reward the carpenter's hammer for their craft?

"It's just... my dad." Robbie paused, but Nine let him continue. "He... I don't..."

"It's okay, Robert. Just tell me how you feel."

"I didn't visit him for Christmas this year - and I feel awful about it - and he's just making me feel worse - but I can't go - I can't, I hate it there-" Robbie wrapped his arms around his chest, face burning.

Nine gave it some thought. "Well, have you told him why you don't want to go?"

"No!" Unthinkable. Out of the question! What a weapon that would be, what a, a self-betrayal. Handing his executioner a blade.

"Good. It can sometimes be a bad idea to share such emotions. Listen, Robert, does your father love you?"

What did that have to do with anything? "Yes."

"And you don't love him?"

Robbie hesitated, then shook his head.


	6. Chapter 6

Nine frowned. "Robert, you need to reconcile these feelings. It's not healthy to hate your father like that. Has he done anything to hurt you?"

Robbie was distraught. How could he answer that? No, he'd never done anything - it was just - it was more than that, it was - but he'd never hit him, never insulted him... He'd told him to grow up, to not be so sensitive, but even that was rare. He - it was all so subtle, the grooming, the quiet pruning and trimming. Trying to turn Robbie into a perfect son, a beautiful, successful young adult who loved his father and had good manners and respected his elders and did as he was told and-

"Robert?"

"I-I guess... not?"

Nine's expression relaxed. "See? You're probably just feeling rebellious. It's your first Christmas where you get to choose, enjoy it! But don't hate your father just because he's not perfect. Nobody is. You should work towards reconciling with him someday. Maybe next year's Christmas!"

Robbie didn't know what to say. "How... do I do that?"

Nine chuckled. "Start by assessing yourself. What is it that your father has trouble with? Is it part of who you are, or is it a behavior that is really something unhealthy? You should always start by being a better person. That's how you get people to like you!"

 _Sure_ , that would work... if he was a damn superhero. But that wasn't what he was asking, anyway. "No, I meant... How do I stop hating my father?"

Nine looked serious. He put a hand on Robbie's shoulder. "Robert, I can't control how you feel. But it helps to look for the good in other people. Like me - I see good in almost everyone. And there's good in you, Robert Rotten - there's a lot of good. I don't want you to be corrupted by hatred."

"No," Robbie agreed. He certainly didn't want that to happen. He didn't like being scared and angry and hurt the way hatred made him feel. "Thank you."

"Anytime!" Nine clapped him on the shoulder and cartwheeled out of Robbie's bedroom.

Did his father love him? Robbie wasn't sure. Did he deserve the way his father treated him like a delinquent sometimes, like a silly, rebellious child? He _was_ immature sometimes. And he certainly tried to rebel against his father.

Was it okay for him to hate his father? Eight had said his feelings were okay no matter what they were, but now Nine was saying that hate was unhealthy, and he didn't know who he could trust. Nine had said he saw good in him, though. What was that supposed to mean? Was the good not... already there? How hard did Nine have to look? He had thought he was doing okay - maybe not amazingly kind or generous, but certainly never _mean_ \- was Robbie as he was now a bad person? Had Eight been wrong, had _he_ been wrong all this time? He _had_ been only a little kid.

The second voicemail said: "We'll mail your Christmas present to you if you can't make it. We'll wait until after Christmas, though, in case you decide to come! We're all really hoping to see you."

Robbie lay on his bed with his face buried in his pillow, trying to forgive him.


End file.
